


Fleeting Days and Words

by thetreesgrowodd



Category: Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Bittersweet, Drabble Collection, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-21
Updated: 2010-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-13 23:00:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/142665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thetreesgrowodd/pseuds/thetreesgrowodd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ten drabbles focusing on Frodo and Sam's relationship and how the Fellowship see them. Set in a Middle-earth where homosexuality is rare and discriminated against. Drama and humor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fleeting Days and Words

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place before, during and after the Quest.

Frodo said, “I know what they say about me in town. They told you that I’m…”

“‘Unnatural,’” whispered Sam.

“I am sorry you had to hear it from a rumor. Even if it is correct.”

“Then you are… You prefer… lads?” Sam fidgeted. “How do you know…?”

Frodo gazed up into the twilight sky, composing his answer for a long moment. “How do you know that those stars are beautiful? Or that strawberries are sweet? Or that green, growing things are good?”

“Well, I just know.”

Frodo nodded. “And I just know.”

“Oh, Mr. Frodo. How can that be unnatural?”

* * *

  


* * *

Frodo kissed Sam, longingly. The ale had made him impulsive, but he still knew this was wrong. He pulled back and pressed gentle fingers to Sam’s lips.

Frodo said, “if you wish to consider that a gesture of fondness from a dear old friend, just say ‘thank you.’ But if you love me as I love you, then tell me by kissing me now.”

His mind a battlefield of hope and doubt, Frodo withdrew his hand.

“Thank you, Mr. Frodo,” said Sam. Then, blushing, leaned in and kissed him.

“Sam! That was both!”

Sam held Frodo’s hands. “Both are true.”

* * *

  


* * *

Frodo rarely gave Sam direct orders. Mostly, that was because Sam knew his duties around Bag End so well that he didn’t need direction. But, when commanded, Sam obeyed his master.

So in the heat of the moment, when Frodo made a request, Sam said an automatic “yes, sir.”

Frodo stopped him immediately, shame in his eyes. “Oh no. I’ve just proven to myself why this won’t work.”

“Sir?”

“We can’t have a relationship if we’re unequal… with one of us taking orders and one giving.”

“But I don’t mind!” Sam said.

Frodo caressed his face. “You should, dear Sam.”

* * *

  


* * *

“Men have weird feet,” said Pippin, studying Aragorn’s by the light of the campfire.

“They’re hairy… but not nearly hairy enough,” Merry added.

“It is said that looking upon Elves’ feet is like looking upon moonlight on the sea,” Legolas said, sliding off his boots.

Sam stared openly. Frodo was more awed than jealous.

“‘Moonlight!’ Pah! Now, we Dwarves have to wear boots just to avoid distracting each other. If we went barefoot it would be sex, sex, sex constantly! The sweat odor is a natural aphrodisiac.” Gimli grasped his boot.

“Don’t take off your boots, Gimli!” the Fellowship begged.

* * *

  


* * *

Boromir watched the Ring-bearer discretely, day after day. He was only concerned for Frodo’s safety, of course.

He wasn’t the only one. Sam was constantly in Boromir’s line of sight, more attuned to Frodo than anyone.

Boromir learned to tell when Frodo was pained or scared — or perhaps, when he sensed the Ring stir — Frodo never complained, just reached for Sam’s waiting hand. The two often spoke privately, gazes held. Dawn’s light revealed them wrapped together.

Open, simple, innocent. Like all that Halflings do.

In Gondor, harsh labels were put on such things. Boromir wondered, but could not label this.

* * *

  


* * *

“Legolas is a good pillow,” said Pippin.

Frodo was sure he had misheard. “Legolas is… what?”

“A good pillow.”

Merry chimed in, “it’s true! He’s soft, he’s warm, he smells good—”

“Like sleeping on a cloud.” Pippin smiled.

 

That night was bitterly cold and the ground was rocky.

“Oh, not another miserable night. Mr. Frodo needs his sleep!” Sam said, rubbing Frodo’s cold hands.

“You know what to do…” Pippin looked toward Legolas.

 

Boromir rose from his watch at dawn to the strangest sight. All four Halflings lay on Legolas, sleeping blissfully.

Legolas looked up. “Hobbits make a good blanket.”

* * *

  


* * *

Halflings were creatures out of Fairy Tales. Boromir never believed in them, not when he was young, and not really even after meeting Frodo and the others.

They reminded him of human children, so that was how he treated them. Kindly. Fondly. But as children.

But a grown man can’t stand idle while a child plays with a sharp sword. Weapons are not for children. Neither are matters of war, nor heavy burdens. That was common sense.

Frodo’s eyes, glaring while Boromir asked him for the Ring, were those of an intelligent, competent adult. But Boromir never believed in him.

* * *

  


* * *

The Healers had cut Frodo’s hair very short. Sam had never seen any Hobbit look like that.

Sam watched him, praying for him to wake. He looked shockingly unhealthy, bruised, cheeks sunken, hand forming the wrong shape under the bandages.

With so many other things to worry about, how could the loss of Frodo’s hair trouble Sam so much?

Aragorn apologized. “It was dirty and matted and they did what they thought best. It will grow back.”

Sam nodded.

“Still, I’m sorry they had to cut your hair.”

“My hair?” For the first time, Sam noticed his own shorn head.

* * *

  


* * *

“I’m afraid I nearly disturbed Frodo during a very private moment just now,” Legolas whispered to Aragorn in the hall. “Sam is with him.”

Sam watched Aragorn’s face through the crack in the door.

“I’ve suspected as much. Think of what all of us felt fighting side by side. If all those intense feelings were concentrated on one single companion… one you already loved. What other path could your feelings take?”

Sam closed the door silently.

“So? What was that noise?” Frodo asked, still breathless and red-lipped and dear.

“Nothing.” Sam climbed back into bed and pulled Frodo close.

* * *

  


* * *

Pippin found Frodo at his desk, quill in hand, eyes far away. He looked wretched.

“What are you struggling with?” Pippin asked.

“Words for Merry.”

“Let’s see. Jovial. Carefree. Gay.”

Frodo turned, pained amusement on his face. “Not synonyms for the word ‘merry’. I meant words for our cousin. I’m writing his speech for the wedding.”

And it was an ordeal. Frodo wouldn’t color Sam and Rosie’s wedding with bittersweet words, but he had to toil to write each joyous one.

Pippin read what he had and shrugged. “Nice. A little flat.”

Frodo grimaced as though his old wound hurt.


End file.
